Read Online Knight Without Armour by James Hilton - Free Book Online Page B

Cossacks and the closed factory-gates. A.J. and Maronin pressed themselves
against the wall and trusted to luck; several horsemen flashed past; whips
cracked and there were terrifying screams; then all was over, almost as
sharply as it had begun. A girl standing next to Maronin had been struck; the
whip had laid open her cheek from lip to ear. A.J. and Maronin helped to
carry her into a neighbouring shop, which was already full of bleeding
victims. Maronin said: “My mother was blinded like that—by a
Cossack whip,”—and A.J. suddenly felt as he had done years before
when he had decided to fight Smalljohn’s system at Barrowhurst, and
when he had seen the policeman in Trafalgar Square twisting the
suffragette’s arm—only a thousand times more intensely.
    Throughout the summer he went on making his reports, attending meetings,
arguing with Axelstein, and cultivating friendship with the boy Alexis. There
was something very pure and winsome about the latter—the power of his
single burning ideal gave him an air of otherworldliness, even in his most
natural and boyish moments. His hatred of the entire governmental system was
terrible in its sheer simplicity; it was the system he was pledged against;
mere individuals, so far as they were obeying orders, roused in him only
friendliness and pity. The Cossack guards who had slashed the crowd with
their whips were to him as much victims as the crowd itself, and even the
Emperor, he was ready to admit, was probably a quite harmless and decent
fellow personally. The real enemy was the framework of society from top to
bottom, and in attacking that enemy, it might and probably would happen that
the innocent would have to suffer. Thus he justified assassinations of
prominent officials; as human beings they were guiltless and to be pitied,
but as cogs in the detested machine there could be no mercy for them.
    About midnight one October evening A.J. was reading in his sitting-room
and thinking of going to bed when the porter tapped at his door with the
message that a young man wished to see him. Such late visits were against
police regulations, but the chance of a good tip had doubtless weighed more
powerfully in the balance. A.J. nodded, and the porter immediately ushered in
Maronin, who had been standing behind him in the shadow of the landing.
    As soon as the door had closed and the two were alone together A.J. could
see that something was wrong. The boy’s face was milky pale and his
eyes stared fixedly; he was also holding his hand against his chest in a
rather peculiar way. “What on earth’s the matter?” A.J.
enquired, and for answer Alexis could do nothing but remove his hand and
allow a sudden stream of blood to spurt out and stain the carpet.
    A.J., in astonished alarm, helped him into the bedroom and laid him on the
bed, discovering then that he had been shot in the chest and was still
bleeding profusely. The boy did not speak at first; he seemed to have no
strength to do anything but smile. When, however, A.J. had tended him a
little and had given him brandy, he began to stammer out what had happened.
He had, it seemed, fulfilled a secret task given him by revolutionary
headquarters. He had shot Daniloff, Minister of the Interior. He had done it
by seeking an interview and firing point-blank across the minister’s
own study-table. Daniloff, however, had been quick enough to draw a revolver
and fire back at his assailant as the latter escaped through a window. A
ladder had been placed in readiness by an accomplice, and Alexis had been
descending by it when Daniloff’s bullet had struck him in the chest. He
had hurried down, unheeding, and had mingled—successfully, he
believed—with the crowds leaving a theatre. He had been in great pain
by then, and knew that he dare not let himself be taken to a hospital because
in such a place his wound would instantly betray him. The only plan he had
been able to think of had